Follow Me, Lead Me
by Hibernian Princess
Summary: More often than not, you find what you need.  Sometimes, however, it finds you first.  Young!Sherlock, age ten-ish.  Oneshot.


**A/N: Okay, so this is my first attempt at _Sherlock_** **fanfiction. I originally wasn't going to write any of my own for quite a while (and it might never have happened), but a friend of mine on Tumblr challenged me to write about young Sherlock being followed home by a dog which he names Watson, so I gave it a shot and I think it turned out fairly well.  
><strong>

**Your feedback is especially appreciated, because this is not my division. ;)**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's _Sherlock_ or the Sherlock Holmes novels.**

* * *

><p>Turning up the collar of his coat against the brisk October wind, the young boy made his way home from school. Another boring day with tedious classes that taught ridiculous information that no practical person would ever use. When would one ever need to know what had happened with the colonies over two hundred years ago? It was in the past and across an ocean-one only needed to know that America was no longer under British control.<p>

Suddenly, the young boy felt something brush his leg. Looking down, he saw a small yellow lab, eyes eager and filled with joy, looking up at him. "Go on," he urged the dog, shoving it as tenderly as he could away from him. "Go home."

Slowly, he backed the way. The dog cocked its head at him curiously and sat in place for a moment before trotting after the boy. "No!" exclaimed the boy.

The dog, presumably somewhat shocked by the boy's tone, turned its head further. Cautiously, the boy approached it and knelt at its side. "Male, no collar, fur's matted, smells _awful_...you're a stray," the boy reasoned.

Af if it could understand, the dog looked at him and whimpered slightly. "That's not fair, you know," the boy told the dog. "Now I _have_ to bring you home. By the way, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock arose and continued his walk home. The dog followed him, apparently happy to have somewhere to go, at least for a while. Soon enough, they arrived at a rather run-down house in one of the quieter parts of London. "Come on," Sherlock urged the dog as he rushed up the steps. The dog followed cautiously; many of its experiences with civilization had been less than favorable.

Before entering the house, Sherlock stopped to think. "You need a name," he mused aloud, looking at the dog. "Hmm, what to call you?"

There were a few moments of silence in which Sherlock thought as the dog looked up at him expectantly. "Watson. That's what I'll call you-you look like a Watson."

Sherlock had taken the name from a book he had been reading recently; "Watson" was the name of one of the most important characters. "Come on in, Watson," Sherlock said, opening the door and gesturing for the dog to enter.

As expected, the house was completely silent. Both of Sherlock's parents were out and Mycroft was presumably with friends-he always was. Sherlock walked into the kitchen, flicking on the light as he walked. He removed his coat and set it neatly over the back of a chair before striding towards the refrigerator and throwing it open.

He scanned the contents dismally, seeking some sort of suitable food for Watson. Upon investigating the depths of the refrigerator, Sherlock managed to find a few slices of ham from dinner a few nights ago. "Here you go," he murmured, placing a slice on the floor. "Here, Watson!"

Watson scurried across the floor in the direction of the ham. He gobbled the food greedily. "Hasn't eaten in a while - more than a day for sure," Sherlock muttered.

"SHERLOCK!"

Upon hearing his name, the boy's eyes widened. He hurriedly closed the fridge and sought a cloth with which to clean Watson's saliva from the floor. Watson, who appeared nearly as frightened as Sherlock, scuttled under the table.

"Shhh," Sherlock whispered to the dog, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't move and _don't bark_."

By some miraculous occurrence, Sherlock was able to clean the floor and dispose of the rag before his mother dropped her bag onto the table. Watson's ears flattened against his head. Sherlock shot him a sharp look. _Don't you dare make a noise_, it said.

"What did I tell you about that room of yours?" she yelled.

"But Mum, it's all important. I've told you, I need to see it all together to see how it all connects," Sherlock protested.

She rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, I don't care how important it is to you. You are going to go up to your room and _stay_ there until every single scrap of newsprint is off of your walls."

Sherlock bit his lip. His mother had been nagging him about the massive collage that had begun on his walls for a few months, but Sherlock had steadfastly refused to do so. He loved to gaze at his walls at night and scan the articles, seeing how they connected, either stylistically or factually. It helped relax him-and sometimes, it took him away from the shouts that wafted up from the first floor.

"Why do _you_ care? You aren't even going to be living here for much longer," protested Sherlock.

His mother's eyes widened. "What on earth would make you think that?" she murmured. She knew that her youngest son was possessed with particularly keen senses, but aside from the fighting, she and her husband had been extremely quiet about their plans.

"You really shouldn't leave legal papers lying around on the countertops," Sherlock pointed out, pulling a folder from the counter and opening it, revealing a stack of official-looking documents.

"That is confidential!" the woman cried, snatching the folder from her son's grasp. "You have no right-"

"I have every right. I'm your son and from my understanding, the children are divided up, just like everything else."

His mother's eyes widened, tears brimming around their edges. "You think that that's all you are to me-just _property_?"

"Maybe not to you," Sherlock confessed. "But Dad..."

His mother shook her head vigorously. "That's why we're doing this, Sherlock. I-I can't stand what he does to you and Mycroft anymore," she confessed.

"Then why did you let him do it for this long?" Sherlock's eyes were sad, but it was a cold sort of sorrow-no tears would come from this.

She sighed. "Because things are complicated, Sherlock," she confessed before pulling her son into an embrace.

Sherlock allowed this, but he did not return the gesture. Had his mother truly cared for him, she would have ended it the first time she'd seen the marks on Sherlock's back. She'd promised to do something, but she had claimed to need time. She had been given plenty of it-nearly seven years. Sherlock was surprised that she'd bothered to act at all.

"You're still going up to your room, Sherlock," his mother reminded him as she stepped away.

"All right," he obliged, turning to ascend the stairs. "Come on, Watson."

Watson, presumably pleased to escape from the confines of the table, arose and trotted up the staircase after Sherlock.

Sherlock's mother simply watched her son go, shaking her head. All of the boy's teachers had remarked on his astounding intellectual capabilities. "He is a pleasure, a delight, a _great_ boy."

_Maybe one day, he'll be a good one._

* * *

><p>Sherlock laid on his floor, gazing at the clippings affixed to his ceiling. His eyes scanned over them, searching for particularities in the language. Writing was such an interesting thing, Sherlock mused. It wasn't impossible to make inferences about people via their writing, even if it was in newsprint. They were supposed to keep their personal opinions separate from what they wrote-the job of a journalist was, after all, to report only the facts-but the writers' thoughts always crept into their word choice. <em>Agrees, doesn't agree, blatantly dislikes-hmm, these two clearly have the same author<em>, Sherlock induced, eyes moving fluidly across the ceiling.

Watson, who found watching Sherlock quite tedious, nudged his new master's calf with his nose. "Don't bother me, Watson; I'm thinking!" Sherlock exclaimed, shoving the dog's muzzle away from him as gently as he could.

Watson, however, was a bit more determined that Sherlock had expected. He persistently nudged the boy, whimpering slightly. "Oh _fine_," Sherlock relented, pulling himself up from the floor.

"You want to play?" he asked, searching for a small object that he could throw for the dog.

Eventually, he located a small ball under his desk. He threw it carefully across the room. Watson eagerly sprang after the ball and, upon locating it, put it in his mouth and dropped it expectantly at Sherlock's feet. He picked up the ball and moved to put it away. Watson tracked the boy's movements closely. "Oh, you want me to do it _again_?" Sherlock inquired, clearly exasperated. He repeated the process several times until Watson laid down on the floor, panting heavily.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, sighing deeply as he looked at the walls. It really was ridiculous for his mother to want him to remove the clippings, but she _was_ his mother. "Might as well," Sherlock mused, beginning to peel a clipping from his wall before sticking it on his door.

He continued to transfer the articles until the back of his door was filled. Sherlock centered himself in the room, pondering where to put the clippings that remained on the walls. However, before he could decide, he heard footsteps slamming up the staircase. "Go, Watson!" Sherlock hissed, practically shoving the dog under his bed.

The door was flung open, hit the wall, and bounced back with nearly enough force to hit the man that had opened it. "How'd you find out?" the man roared.

"The papers," replied Sherlock placidly. "They're right on the counters."

The man spewed a few curses under his breath. "Helen and I _swore_ you wouldn't know until it was all final," he growled.

Sherlock knew better than to speak-to do so would be setting himself up for a painful physical punishment. "Not a _word_ to Mycroft," the man growled.

"Yes, Father," Sherlock promised, taking a small step back. He needed to keep his composure-if he showed a sign of fear, Watson might panic, which would escalate the situation to an entirely different level.

With a last menacing look, Sherlock's father left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Long after the heavy footsteps had faded down the stairs, Sherlock crouched and motioned for Watson to come out from under the bed. "Well," he murmured, stroking the animal's head, "at least I've got you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Do you like it? Would you like to see more stories in this vein? Because I might do more, if only because I can't help myself.**


End file.
